Desperado
by Stridette
Summary: Callisto's Resting House has a regular visitor. She is beautiful and deadly, and a few years ago she learned the meaning of freedom. She also learned its cost. OC POV.


Another night, another drink. Just like any other.

I sat at my usual stool, the one right on the corner. Someone was playing the sax over somewhere in the centre, and I listened with a sway I barely even noticed. I'd been coming here every night for the last eighteen months, come hail, come sleet, come snow. Come fuckin' apocalypse. There wasn't much to my life these days. I tell ya, enough bad luck in this life can send you straight to hell.

She came in like an angel, or maybe a devil; couldn't really tell which. She stood out real nice, 'cause as they say, there aren't many women on Callisto who aren't men. Walked straight past all the familiar faces without so much as a glance, probably not totally ignorant about those leering bastards but ignoring them all the same. I kinda expected her to sit over in the more shadowy part of the bar, secluded-like, y'know. And far away from me. In all the eighteen months I'd been there, not one person had ever gone near me; I wasn't a regular yet, see? But she came right up and sat on that stool right next to me. I might've flinched, might not've. Didn't matter; she didn't even look at me.

I cradled that drink just like I'd cradled every drink for the last eighteen months and watched her out the corner of my eye. Watched her as she ordered herself a drink and cradled it just like I cradled mine: like someone who'd come to drown their sorrows but didn't have the energy to get properly drunk. Huh. I'd almost got myself convinced we had some unspoken bond or something going on when she finally piped up.

"If you don't want me sitting next to you, you'd better move."

I'm damn well sure I flinched then, and I'm pretty damn sure she noticed, too. But she didn't say nothin', just waited. I returned the favour. I ain't the talking type, exactly. It wasn't a real long wait before she started talking again.

"I haven't seen you around here before. But then, it has been nearly two years. God... where does the time go?"

I sensed a bit of guilt in her voice, but I wasn't gonna pry. None of my business, that's for sure.

"I'm supposed to come here every year. Heh. Reliving the past. Always such a joy."

Ahh, so that was why the guilt. Sounded fair enough. I nodded, and she took a swig.

"Just remembering... you know what I remember? I remember he once asked me if I'd come rescue him if he said he was gonna die. I said yes, of course. And I did, once. Didn't work, though. He always took better care of himself than I ever could."

I gave her another sideways look, suddenly curious. I wasn't exactly expecting to hear her life story, and I was even less expecting her to start jabbering on about saving some guy. Or not saving him, whatever. I wondered if she was drunk before she even came in.

"And another time, the other time. He never actually said it, but we all knew he was gonna die. I could've saved him, you know. And I would've. But I didn't."

Well, I guessed that meant he was dead. So she was coming out here to sit on some stool and mope? All the way out on Callisto? Either she was barking mad or she had a death wish.

"I sometimes have this image of what it must've been like for him. And I sometimes imagine, what would've happened if I'd been there with him? Sure, it wasn't my place. And he would probably still be dead, and I probably would be, too. But you know... something always felt good about fighting by his side. Felt right. And now, it feels wrong. He's not there."

Yup, she pretty much had to be drunk. I mean, she sounded sober and all that, but she wasn't making a whole lotta sense. Fighting? She had to be a poetic drunk or somewhat. Sitting there, slouched over a drink in a run-down old joint like this, looking so pale and thin and weak, her face hidden under that mess of hair... there wasn't no way she was a fighter. I doubted she could even hold a pistol.

The sax played, and she kept going, like she was doing it cause someone was making her or something. I wasn't. I hadn't said a word. I didn't even know why she kept on telling me all this stuff.

"I'd been searching a long time for a place to belong. Then he was there. Then I left him, still looking, too blind to notice I'd found home. And then, when he left me, I cried."

She said it all casual-like, kinda like she was telling some other poor bastard's story. She was still mumbling, though. Had been mumbling most o' the time. I felt kinda bad for her. It sounded kinda rough. But then, I was sorta getting the feeling that it was all ancient history, anyhow.

"I've got a place, but it's not home any more."

Ancient history that wouldn't let go, maybe. But still, ancient history.

Taking a break from her jabbering, she let out a sigh and took another swig. I looked at her again, not bothering to be all secretive about it. I suddenly wanted a good look at her, and I got it as her hair fell away from her face. Man, was she beautiful. Whoever the dead guy was had been a lucky man. I wondered if he knew it.

Setting her glass down again, now half-empty, she sighed again, that sort of sigh you take after a big drink. Not like the other one. She turned to me, met my eyes. I blinked, kinda uncertain. Then she told me that thing I'll never forget: "Hold on to what you've got. You never know when it'll go hunting for all it has, and if you're not careful, you're just not gonna make that cut."

I can't say I'd had a whole lot in the last eighteen months to hold on to, but somehow, that really stuck with me.

Then suddenly, as if nothing had happened, she smiled and laughed. I flinched again, 'cause it was so different. She was all embarrassed, and definitely wasn't mumbling like before. Being real loud, in fact.

"I'm sorry. You probably didn't wanna hear all that crap from a total stranger. You just..." For a bit, she went all quiet, squinting her eyes at me like she couldn't see me right or something. "You just reminded me of someone for a minute."

She smiled again, only softer, then pushed her half-full glass over to me. It was next to my hand, and I could feel the cold of the glass on my skin. "Get drunk tonight, okay? Get completely smashed," she told me, before walking off.

I didn't watch her go, but I felt it, like the last angel going back to heaven, or maybe the last devil returning to hell; couldn't tell which. People were talking, probably about her, or me, or both. I didn't care. I just listened to that saxophone play its jazz and took a drink from that half-full glass.


End file.
